John's Colors
by J Sundrop
Summary: The history behind a crayon box Sherlock eventually finds in John's room. (T for very very mild theme)


Standard disclaimer - I do not own any of the characters (nor the cover image)

John's mother walked into his room; a small space, walls painted blue, red monster trucks and action figurines spread across the floor - every five-year old's dream. Her soft features twisting into a light scold, _"Clean up this mess,"_ she held out a jar of two hundred crayons and a coloring book in her hands placing them at his desk. _"For you."_ He looked at the items, a delighted expression lighting up his young face, and ran to the table, practically dumping the jar out and scattering all the colors out where he could see them. (After cleaning up his mess on the floor,) John stayed at his desk for hours, finishing almost half the pages of the coloring book.

The front door to their house slammed open and then shut as John and Harriet were just settling into their rooms from dinner. From his bed, John heard his mother's light footsteps hurry to the door, and her gentle voice engaging in a fevered attempt to calm down the loud, masculine sound vibrations emanating from the entryhall. His mother's voice took on a higher pitch, a pleading tone, and John heard a loud _fizz_ and _pop_ , then his father pulled a kitchen chair out with an irritating scree-

His mother barged into his room and rummaged on his table for the coloring book and crayon box. Carefully places those on his lap with a kiss on the head, she said, _"Draw mommy a picture. I'll be right back."_ So John finished the coloring book, switching between blues, reds, and grays as the voices downstairs grew louder and louder. He eventually drifted off to sleep, comforted by the rainbow surrounding him.

John's teacher walked around her classroom, surveying her students' work. She observed many oil pastels of the fruit bowl in the center, all with neat figures and lines. She silently applauded each one. When she got to John's, however, all she saw were blurs of color, masses of substance intertwining to create an image that was not quite clear but could be imagined to be the same bowl everyone else was drawing. _"John that wasn't the assignment. You have to start over."_ Biting back a snide remark on the relativity and subjectivity of interpretation, he folded up the thick paper, shoved it in his backpack, and began again, looking at the people around him for guidance to get an A.

When he got home, he went upstairs to his room, now painted dark blue, took out the paper, and began finishing it with the oil pastels on his desk. Shortly after, his mother came home, shouting a hello from the kitchen, and Harry came in after. Putting the last touches on his piece, John turned the door handle to show… anyone really. His mother, his sister…

The front door to his house opened softly and John stepped away from the door to his room. He still needed to do the background, after all. When he eventually had to come outside, John took his dinner in his room, citing his homework as the reason to hide out upstairs. As he masked his face into neutral mode and walked up the stairs, a low voice interrupted his ascension. "What're you lookin' at me like that for? Too good t'eat with your dear old parents?" Gulping, John turned around to face his family. Harry stared down at her plate, and his mother avoided his eyes as she tried to inconspicuously adjust her long sleeves. It was summertime.

"N-no," he sputtered out. "I just have of, uh, homework to do."

"Yeah," Harry jumped in. "Specialized high schools can be pretty demanding." John had to hide his grateful smile, though he tried to convey it with his eyes.

"Hmph," his father reluctantly said.

John hurried upstairs and was shut his door tightly but quietly, pushing his dinner aside and setting off to finish the background on his picture. As the tense silence stretched out downstairs, the fruit bowl's brilliance stood out against the beautifully crafted background of darkness and shadows.

John walked around the Afghan vender fair, picking out a six pack of colored pencils, and ending up paying less than it was originally being sold for. Going back to the battlefield shortly, he knew he would have no time nor energy to put those markers to good use, but it comforted him having the familiar tools around when gunshots were all that could be heard and the blazing sun bore down on his skin.

When Sherlock found the small twelve pack of crayons in John's desk drawer, he was instantly puzzled as to why they were here. Sure, they might become useful if Sherlock ever decides to record things by hand (highly unlikely), and John did not keep many personal items. He was practical. These crayons were highly _unpractical_ as they had no real purpose. Why keep them, then? Sentiment? This box, though old, was hardly ever opened (as shown by the lack of wear along the back edge, and the crayons themselves showed even fewer signs of use). However, the box itself was handled quite frequently (fraying cardboard corners, faded lettering, easy access in top desk drawer) but wants few people to know of its existence (handled often but not kept on his person). Embarrassing comfort object? Why embarrassing? Sure, a box of crayons might be odd but definitely more normal than carrying a skull around. What makes it so important?

Of course. Memories. But of what? Something traumatic, likely, if kept by John (steely, soldier John) as a _comfort_ object. Something during the war? Possibly. But this seems so _childish_.

That's it! Something from his childhood was traumatic and so he keeps these in his drawer to help with…

"What are you doing in my drawers, Sherlock?"

He spun around, closing the drawer with his hip and putting his hands with the crayon box behind his back. "Nothing."

John raised his eyebrows, believing exactly zero percent of it. "Right. Of course. And the truth is?"

"Don't get mad, John. Promise?"

"Sherlock, I'm not going to promise I won't get upset, especially if you think the possibility that I will get upset is high enough that you want me to promise that I won't…"

"Fine. Nothing."

John threw his head back, an acknowledgement of how much of a baby Sherlock was being. "Sherlo-"

"I was doing nothing." He stepped forward and began making his way along the side of the room, back to the walls, to the exit.

"Just show me what's in your hands."

"No."

John planted his feet firmly in front of the exit door. "Sherlock…"

Realizing there was no easy way out, and wanting answers anyway, Sherlock said, "Fine. But remember you promised you wouldn't get upset!"

"What? I did no such… oh."

Sherlock opened his hands to reveal a slightly worn twelve pack Crayola box. "Why do you have this?"

John's hands clasped together as he responded with two words, "Deduce it," before going into the kitchen and beginning to make tea.

"Believe me I tried."

John's eyebrows flicked up, a prompt for him to continue. "But I couldn't figure out _why_ you kept it, if it's a reminder of bad childhood years."

Keeping a steeled face, John continued his tea-making, pouring water into the kettle. "I don't keep it for the bad ones," he said, not even bothering to ask how Sherlock deduced that from a _crayon box_. "I keep it as a reminder of that I'm still here, and that – yes I know it sounds kind of silly, but – the colors will always be there, and so will I." Smiling, John added, "I mean, assuming I don't get killed on a chase at least."

"No," Sherlock replied.

John spins around. "I'm sorry?"

"You said, 'it sounds kind of silly.' Which it does not."

John smiled. "Right. Well, then."

"And I'll be here too."

"What?" John asks, unsure if he heard the detective correctly or was just hallucinating what he wanted to hear from unseen fumes of an experiment gone wrong.

"I will always be here, too, John. You know I'd be lost without my blogger."


End file.
